


Tears for d’Artagnan: the Touch of a Young Soul

by DebbieF



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 01:10:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2409590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DebbieF/pseuds/DebbieF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waves hanky warning for a tear jerker.<br/>A stand alone story.</p><p>++++</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tears for d’Artagnan: the Touch of a Young Soul

On a desolate battlefield covered with blood, tears fell like raindrops from heaven from three men joined by brotherhood as their youngest lied near death from a mortal wound near the boy’s heart. D’Artagnan was cradled in Athos’s strong arms. The older man bent over the limp figure, rocking him back and forth. He held on tightly for fear if he did not d’Artagnan would simply drift away.

“So... sorry,” d’Artagnan tried valiantly to get his last words out. He could see his maman and pe’re waiting for him. Placing his hand on Athos’s chest d’Artagnan patted it weakly. “Meant... to be... with you... longer than... this,” he sighed softly. “Do not cry... for me. It is a... soldier’s death... and how... I would have.... wanted to go out.”

Fearing he would not be able to get the words out before his dear boy departed this world, Athos placed a kiss on top of d’Artagnan’s head and swallowed hard. “You saved my life,” he choked out. “Foolish, foolish, child,” he admonished gently wiping the tears flowing from the boy’s own face. “I may have been able to dodge that bullet if only you would have called out to me,” he lightly ran his hand down d’Artagnan’s lank hair. “I lost Thomas and now I am losing you as well,” tears poured down his face. His own agony reflected on the faces of his two brothers in arms that knelt on either side of them.

“You are not losing me, At... Athos,” d’Artagnan’s voice weakened and his vision was beginning to gray out to the point where he couldn’t see any longer. “I shall always be with you... in one form... or another.”

Not understanding the boy’s words Athos simply held d’Artagnan all the closer, as he could feel the youngster slipping away from them. “I love you... son.”

“Aye, lad,” Porthos laid his large hand on d’Artagnan’s heart. “I love ya too. Couldn’t of asked for a better little brother.”

Murmuring prayers for God to watch over the soul of their young one, Aramis took the cross the queen had given him and placed it over d’Artagnan’s head. “As Porthos said you’ve been the little brother I’ve always wanted,” he tried to laugh but a harsh sob tore out of his throat instead, “even... even before I realized I wanted or needed one. I love you, d’Artagnan.”

“Maman... pe’re...” d’Artagnan mumbled as his breathing became more labored. He still needed to impress upon his friends what they meant to him. “Athos... you’ve been like a father to me. Porthos... Aramis... you’ve brought so... much light and... laughter into my life... I love you all...” he took one last deep breath and with his final words, “my brothers,” d’Artagnan passed on... or did he?”

++++

At the exact moment of d’Artagnan’s death his young soul touched that of another on the outskirts of Lupiac. A boy of the same years as d’Artagnan, who bore a striking resemblance to our young Gascon. Attacked by bandits, he was rolled into a ditch and left to die there from a mortal wound in exactly the same place as d’Artagnan’s.

Just as he too took his last dying breath, the boy heaved, jerking upright in the ditch when he felt the touch of something he could not put a name too. Glancing down at his wound, he could see it immediately start to heal before his very eyes. While a voice inside his head, sounding strangely like his own, told him their work wasn’t finished and that they both had much to do before death finally claimed them.

++++

*Musketeer garrison, a few days later*

D’Artagnan’s funeral became a state affair with King Louis and Queen Anne officiating. Captain Treville shed copious tears for the boy whom he thought one day would have eventually taken over his position. Nearly everyone in attendance was crying. From their Majesty’s to his own Musketeers. Even Rochefort appeared effected to a degree that surprised Treville. Without a doubt though his greatest worries were for his three finest soldiers. Without their youngest brother around he feared they would become careless with their own lives and rush to join d’Artagnan in death.

When services were completed nearly everyone left the area except Athos, Porthos and Aramis as they knelt by d’Artagnan’s graveside.

“I still can’t believe the lad’s gone,” Porthos swiped at his eyes. 

“God takes the good ones first,” Aramis spoke softly, “didn’t you know that?”

“Then I wish to God the boy had been born with a black heart!” Athos retorted violently. “Perhaps he would have lived a longer life.”

“Perhaps,” Aramis agreed quietly. “But you don’t truly mean that otherwise we never would have welcomed him with open arms.”

“Do ya remember the entrance he first made into the garrison?” Porthos would never forget that moment as long as he lived.

“Asking for Athos, telling him to prepare himself to fight and that one of them dies here that day,” Aramis smothered a chuckle. “And I said *now that’s the way to make an entrance*.”

“Yeah he was a right feisty lad and I’m gonna miss him sorely,” Porthos couldn’t see before him because his tears began to leak out again. “Uh, might as well get this outta the way now, but what should we be doin' with d’Artagnan’s possessions?” Porthos felt sick at heart over this whole tragic affair.

“I will keep them with my own belongings,” Athos said in a voice that brooked no argument from his brothers.

“At least we killed those bastards!” Porthos noted harshly. “For whatever that’s worth!”

“I hope d’Artagnan’s at peace with his family,” Athos’s eyes stared at the simple white cross marking their boy’s resting place.

“He is,” Aramis announced firmly. “D’Artagnan called out to his parents,” he sighed. “I believe with all my heart they were there to greet him in heaven.”

Athos didn’t say a single word after that. He slowly turned and walked away with a heavy heart to lick his own wounds in private. He wished with everything that was in him that he had been the one in that grave instead of d’Artagnan.

++++

*A few days later*

Thierry ran past the garrison’s gates looking for Porthos. Finally finding him in the courtyard the child’s words rushed out of his mouth so fast the Musketeer couldn’t understand him. “Slow down, lad. Now start at the beginning.”

“Word from the court is that someone lookin’ an awful lot like your d’Artagnan arrived in Paris the other day.”

“That ain’t even remotely funny!” Porthos felt like cuffing the boy, but he could tell that the lad was speaking what he believed to be the truth.

“He’s stayin’ at the Roaring Brook Inn.”

“What’s his name?” Porthos barked.

“Says his name's Charles but likes to be called d’Art.”

“Shit!” Porthos exploded thinking this was some fool’s idea of a piss poor joke. If Athos hears this blood will be spilled. Looking at Thierry still trying to catch his breath from all the running he had done, Porthos flipped the boy a few coins and watched as Thierry snatched them in mid air.

“Thanks, Porthos!” Quickly the youngster ran back the way he came. It sadly reminded Porthos of past times when d’Artagnan laughingly out ran them all.

Aramis had ended his sparring session with Rene after having seen the exchange between the child and his friend. Joining him he had a question on his lips but was forestalled as Porthos seemed agitated as hell.

“You ain’t gonna believe this!” Porthos then explained to Aramis what Thierry divulged to him. Seeing the other man pale to milk white and stagger back, he grabbed onto Aramis’s arms to prevent him from falling.

“Non! Impossible!” Aramis sucked in his breath. “We must be the ones to tell Athos before he hears this strange news from others.” Seeing that Porthos was in agreement with him they both raced out of the garrison, nearly knocking down their captain in the process as they went to see their friend.

++++

*Athos’s apartment*

As they both walked inside Aramis and Porthos thought perhaps an explosion had occurred as they took in the untidy surroundings. It would seem that anything that hadn’t been nailed down felt the brunt of Athos’s anger.

“What a mess,” Aramis shook his head sadly. He hoped Athos was not in his cups otherwise they’d have an extremely hard time getting him to comprehend what they were going to tell him.

“He’s in the bedroom.” Porthos indicated cocking his head toward the other door where he could hear sounds of moaning. Barely stepping inside he took a look at the older man and then backed outside again to stand near Aramis.

“Conscious?”

“More or less,” was Porthos’s clipped response. “An empty wine bottle’s on the floor though.”

“All right let’s enter the lion’s den.” Aramis threw his hat on what was left of the table, likewise Porthos as both of them joined Athos. Drunk or not they had to get through to him.

++++

*Roaring Brook Inn*

“Hey, boy!”

“Yes,” d’Art poked his head out the door to his room to see who it was.

“Three Musketeers here to see you.”

Smiling, d’Art had been waiting for them anxiously. He knew news had spread of his return or resurrection, however one looked upon it. He prayed they’d believe his story, fantastic though it appeared. “Send them up please.”

“What am I... the maid?” the innkeeper grumbled as he trudged back downstairs.

A minute later the boy opened his door again to the three gentlemen. He could tell they were obviously stunned to see him as their mouth’s fell open in disbelief.

“Maybe we all died in that battle and we just hadn’t realized it until this moment,” Porthos croaked out.

“You think this is d’Artagan’s way of welcoming us to heaven,” Aramis’s eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline.

“Or hell,” Athos added as he stepped into the room first, brushing past the boy as he did so.

“Mon dieu! How can this be?” Aramis got a really good look at the young man once the sunlight from outside filtered into the room.

“He sure does look like em’.” Porthos wondered who the hell they just buried if their boy’s standing right here in front of them.

Indicating the chairs, d’Art sat down on the edge of his bed. “Please sit.” Nervous himself d’Art immediately stood back up and began pacing back and forth across the floor until Athos held up a hand.

“Do stop that. It is unsettling.”

“Apologies.”

Nearly fainting at the words, Athos lost all his color. The boy said it exactly as d’Artagnan always did and with the same inflection. “I must be dreaming all this or else I’m going mad,” he muttered.

“Non! Believe me!” Warm, chocolate brown eyes beseeched the deep blue ones of the other man. “I... am... d’Artagnan!” d’Art enunciated.

Standing up suddenly Athos’s chair crashed behind him. “We buried our boy two days ago!” he roared in anguish.

“Didn’t d'Artagnan tell you that he’d live on in one form or another?” d’Art’s expression became hopeful as he noticed Aramis cross himself and Porthos’s eyes begin to tear up.

“Maman and pe’re were not too thrilled to see me,” d’Art winced. “It was not my time and they told me as much.” Staring into Atho’s skeptical gaze, he chuckled. “Pe’re sounded a lot like you. Scolding me for taking the bullet you would have deflected easily.” Waving his hand in the air d’Art shyly peeked out from behind his bangs. “After kissing and hugging me they sent me back here.”

“How?” Aramis asked, his ever curious nature peaked by the nearly impossible.

“D’Artagnan’s body was mortally wounded beyond repair, but my own wound had not yet killed me. When he died his soul went directly into mine... saving my life.” He tore open his shirt and all three men could see the newly healed skin near his heart where the bullet had entered... in the exact location where d’Artagnan’s wound had been.

Knowing he had to prove himself further, d’Art began telling the men things only the real d’Artagnan would have known. “Athos, you married Anne, otherwise known as Lady de Winter, who you had hung for her crimes. You believed her to be dead but she was anything but and has been a pain in the ass to us ever since,” he stifled a giggle that threatened to slip out. 

“Aramis, you slept with Queen Anne,” he wagged his finger at him, “which was very naughty of you and could get all of us hung.” Seeing the shock on Aramis’s face, d’Art laughed. “No, Athos didn’t say anything. After your adventure in the convent I would catch you and the queen exchanging looks that I interpreted would have been shared between lovers. It would have been highly remiss of me not to have worked it out for myself.” 

And hearing Porthos’s huff of laughter d’Art turned to him last. “Porthos, you grew up in the Court of Miracles and were lovers with Flea. A mission we were on led to the death of Charon who had been a friend of yours.”

Falling down onto his chair, Athos bent his head and started weeping. Great sobs shook his shoulders while Porthos and Aramis gathered round him, their arms supporting their comrade. 

In their obvious shock at the child’s words, the three inseparables missed something of great importance that d’Art wore. As the boy’s shirt fell open further, Aramis focused on the item as it sparkled in the sun’s rays. “My cross!” he exclaimed in surprise. Walking over to d’Art he lifted it slightly off the young man’s chest to get a better look at it. “How come you by this? It was buried with d’Artagnan.”

“I do not have the answer to that question,” d’Art noticed how each of the men glanced at one another in silent communication.

“How come you look and sound like em?” Porthos growled. Still not trusting his own eyes.

Shrugging, d’Art seemed just as baffled as them. “I never met your d’Artagnan. This is how I’ve always been.”

“Where are you from?” Aramis posed, tilting his head as he studied the youth.

“Lupiac, Gascony.”

Whipping his head up at that announcement, Athos sharp eyes narrowed. “Parents?” he barked.

“Don’t know. I was raised in an orphanage.”

“Mon dieu!” Aramis’s eyes widened in understanding. “Twins.”

“How?” Athos asked, helplessly torn whether or not to believe in this miracle. “D’Artagnan was an only child.”

“As far as our lad knew,” Porthos added. As he began to see a light at the end of this very dark road they all had been traveling since the death of their youngest.

“We have time to delve into this mystery later,” Aramis the voice of reason offered. “Whatever led to, ummmm, Charle’s...”

“D’Art please.”

“D’Art’s,” Aramis acknowledged with a brilliant smile, “appearance amongst us, it would appear divine intervention played a hand in it bringing our young one back to the fold.”

“But this boy, Charles or d’Art, would have had his own memories,” Athos was confused. “Yet he seems to know all about us. Shouldn’t we be total strangers to him?”

“Doctors have written studies about twins. Some say they share the same mind with the same memories along with having the same instinctive reflexes and actions. When our d’Artagnan left us his soul did not and instead joined with his twin’s,” Aramis held out his hands in supplication for both his friends to understand. “It does make sense,” gazing fondly at d’Art he held out his arms to hug the boy. “He’s our pup come back to us. Praise God!”

While d’Art hugged Aramis back he could still see Athos’s grim face watching him closely.

“How the deuce do we explain *him* to Treville, their Majesties and everyone else?” Athos felt like he was on the verge of losing what was left of his mind and it had started the minute he had entered this room.

“We go to the captain first and see how he feels we should proceed,” Aramis smiled, the twinkle back in his eyes.

Porthos’s eyes touched upon a sword and dagger that were lying on the bed. Glancing over at the boy he asked, “Ya any good with those?”

Grinning cockily, d’Art nodded. “Oui.”

“Oh no doubt about d’Artagnan’s being back,” Aramis laughed with glee. “No one does *cocky* better than our dear boy!”

Running a hand down his face, Athos stood up and walked toward d’Art. Cupping the youngster’s cheek in one hand his eyes traced the boy’s features until tears shimmered in his own again. Folding d’Art in his arms Athos whispered a prayer of thanks to a God he hadn’t believed in for a very long time.

Then Porthos dragged the boy out of Athos’s grip and proceeded to lift d’Art up in the air in a strong bear hug until the young one squawked in protest.

Not knowing the reception they would receive upon returning to the garrison with a resurrected d’Artagnan, they cared not. For their pup had found his way back to them and they would cherish every minute of it. The three inseparables were given a second chance to get it right.

As time would go on they made sure d’Art lived up to his potential in becoming *the greatest of them all*.


End file.
